Or maybe it’s not even about love. We’re standing in a fucking Scooby-Doo Mystery, and I’m just holding onto what Farrow said.
No one is bleeding or dying.
But she’s crying, and there’s that damn camcorder…alright, this mystery needs to be solved like yesterday.
Xander peers into the room. Seeing Kinney screaming into her pillow. He winces, then nods to me like you’ve got this. He strolls lazily away, and Farrow and I slip into Kinney’s bedroom.
I shut the door behind me. “Kinney, what’s with the camera?”
Her head pops up, and she glares. “God, do you two not listen?” She wipes roughly at her wet eyes. “I said leave. Go away. Get out. You aren’t needed here.” She hiccups and rolls off the bed, her hot stride pointed at the camcorder. She rattles the thing.
Farrow nears without any hesitation. Most would move like they’re approaching a snapping turtle, but he’s not scared of my sister. He tells her, “If it’s broken, that’s just going to break it more—”
“Did I ask you?” she retorts.
“Hey,” I cut in. “We’re just trying to help, Kin.”
She sniffs louder, eyes pinging from me to Farrow. “You can’t do anything.”
“Maybe we can,” I say strongly. “Try us.” I follow Farrow further into the room. He has an easygoing gait and takes a seat on the edge of the bed.
I try to oil my rusted joints and sit. Calmly.
I sink down next to Farrow, my hands clasped together, forearms on my thighs. And the camera on the tripod—it’s pointed directly at us. At the bed.
My blood goes cold.
I sit up straighter. More rigid.
Kinney is quiet for a second. I think she might be pretending to ignore us. Her dark eyeliner is smeared underneath her dried eyes, and her dyed black hair is chopped with blunt, short bangs. I strain my ears as she mutters, “You’re going to think it’s stupid.”
Thinking that whatever she’s doing is stupid is a better option than where my brain has already gone. “You don’t know that.”
Kinney huffs, her gaze nervously darting from Farrow to me, back to Farrow.
“No judgment,” he says easily.
She takes another deep breath. “I have a video diary. It’s personal, so don’t ask to watch it. And I didn’t want to record the diary on my phone or laptop in case the clips leaked to the cloud or wherever. But I should have because I just lost months of footage.” Anger flames her eyes. “It’s just gone.”
I’m proud of her.
That’s my first reaction. “You did a good thing, Kinney,” I say. “Recording it on a camcorder.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Farrow lifts his brows. “Definitely.”
She smiles a bit. I stand up and check the camcorder, popping out the memory card. I don’t know much about these. They’re kind of outdated and old. Most people just use their cellphones to record videos.
“We can give it to Uncle Garrison.” I inspect the camera’s functions. “He could probably fix it.” Our uncle is proficient in computers and stuff like this. He’s hacked me before. I was twelve and gloated that my passwords were too strong for any hacker.
Yeah, he proved me wrong.
Kinney shakes her head. “I don’t want Uncle Garrison to know I have a video diary. No one knows.”
Farrow frowns, confused. “Not even your little girl squad?”
She glares. “We’re not little, you turd.”
“Farrow calls everything little,” I defend him.
He smiles at me like that’s not completely true. And I know, he’d never call his brain or dick small—but those are technicalities and semantics that I’m ignoring.
For his own life. Because Kinney might skewer him with one too many death glares.
She crosses her bony arms. “No, I didn’t tell my best friends because it’s personal. And if Dad found out, he’d overreact.”
I want to deny that, but I thought the worst the moment I saw the camcorder. And I’m pretty positive my dad would have demanded to see the footage. Just to ensure Kinney wasn’t doing anything inappropriate. He’s a strict dad. Because he cares. It’s what I’ve always known.
Farrow comes over and eyes the camera before looking up at me. “There’s one more option.”
“What?” I ask, not knowing this one.
“Jack Highland.” Farrow mentions the exec producer, who has an extensive knowledge of camera equipment. “I’ll tell him this is security shit and private. He won’t ask questions, and we’ll see what he can do.”
Kinney exhales in relief, but when we stare at her, she rolls her eyes and layers on a blasé attitude. Deadpanned. “That’s better.”
She doesn’t say anything else or even make fun of me for having the losing idea. She must be really worried about this.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I stare hard at the incoming text.
SOS. In your garage! Come quick. Please. – Jane
This day is giving me whiplash. I show Farrow the text, and before we leave, he tells my sister, “Hang in there.”
I add, “We’ll get it fixed, Kinney.”
“Without watching any of it,” she demands.
“Of course.”
“Cross your heart.”
I make an X over my heart.
She waits for Farrow to do the same, and I don’t know…it makes me smile.
He draws an X across his chest.
She softens, somewhat. “Thanks.” We hug her, and then we leave. Fast. The staircase is wide enough that we’re step-for-step and not fighting to lead the way. Not until the family Basset Hound slowly trots up the stairs. Huffing and puffing.
“You okay, Gotham?” My floppy-eared dog just plops like putty on a middle step. He pants with this goofy dog smile. I crouch down, pat his belly, then continue on.
As we pass, I can’t mistake Farrow assessing Gotham. I don’t want to ask if anything’s wrong. I grew up with that dog, and I’m aware that he’s old and slowing down.
But some things I just wish could last forever.
When Farrow and I enter the garage hand-in-hand, I see Jane pacing tensely back and forth, a strawberry-shaped purse thwacking her wide hip. My ribs constrict around my lungs.
And then Thatcher Moretti uncrosses his arms and catches her around the waist. He draws my best friend to his chest, and I relax, just seeing her ease against him. Her arms wrapping around his muscular six-foot-seven build.
Thank God.
Thank God, she’s okay. Thank God, she’s happy. Thank God, she found love in him and that he treats her like the most beautiful human on the planet. Janie deserves nothing less.
Only two cars are parked in the garage. Jane and Thatcher are towards the back near six slumped bicycles.
“What’s going on?” We near them, and I ask to be sure, “Are you two okay?”
“Yes, yes.” Jane turns towards us. “We’re both fine.”
We come to a stop a couple feet from them, and Farrow and Thatcher are speaking with their damn eyes. I get that it’s a security thing: the eye look. But it’s frustrating when this isn’t a security issue.
“Can I not be in the dark here?” I ask them, feeling like I’m a hundred steps behind all three.
“I’m just as lost, wolf scout.” He holds my gaze. “If I knew anything, I’d definitely tell you.”
I nod stiffly, warmth flooding my body, and I slide my arm around his shoulders. We look ahead at the two people who have answers.
“Janie?”
She steeples her fingers to her lips. “I don’t know how to say this.”
Great.
Jane being at a loss for words is never a good thing.
I mortar brick upon brick. Stone upon stone, my face stoic and shoulders squared. Prepared for an apocalypse. Come at me. “We can handle it. The four of us.”
“I agree, wholeheartedly, but I think…this might be more complicated, old chap.”
<
br /> Farrow looks between them. “Just spit it out.”
Standing behind Jane, Thatcher weaves an arm across her collarbones, and she leans back into his chest. I’m surprised when Thatcher is the one who speaks first. “Lily walked in on us having sex.”
What?
“Lily?” Farrow repeats.
“My mom?” I say tightly, heat burrowing into my lungs. “What the fuck?” We couldn’t have heard them right.
Jane winces. “It’s karma. Coming to reap its ugly head at me for walking in on both of you in Scotland.”
Farrow holds up a hand. “Before we talk about karma, back up.”
I shake my head, confusion scrunching my brows. “How?” How the hell could my mom walk in on them in bed together?
It makes no damn sense.
Jane clears her throat. “We…we were having sex in the limo.”
My eyes grow. “Your dad’s limo?”
Where she was born.
She flushes. “Oui. His limo. It was a spontaneous…situation.”
Farrow buckles forward in laughter, amusement filling his eyes. Mostly looking at Thatcher. And strangely, the air lightens.
Thatcher’s lip begins to hoist.
“You had sex in your future father-in-law’s limo.” Farrow holds a stitch in his side, beyond entertained. “Man, you’re making it harder and harder for me to keep calling you a hall monitor.”
Jane and I stare between them. Her curiosity piquing, and I’m pretty much just as interested in the current status of their friendship. Jesus, it’s weird even calling them friends when Farrow considered Thatcher a human hernia sent to pester the living hell out of him.
Thatcher fixes his earpiece. “There’s more room in a limo to fuck than the back of a cramped sedan.”
Farrow grins. “Can’t argue with that.”
I’m glad that Janie feels comfortable and safe to have sex in a car, but it’s seriously not the point I’m hung up on. “How would my mom see you two?”
My words are oxygen-vacuuming apparently.
Jane looks up at me. “The limo was parked on the street outside my parent’s house. The windows are tinted, so Aunt Lily couldn’t see in. But we could see her coming, and she knocked frantically on the door and kept calling for my dad. She thought he was inside.” She pauses, face twisting in hurt.
Hurt for me.
This is going to hurt?
Farrow extends his arm around my waist.
I breathe in, prepared for the heavy weight to fall.
“Moffy, she seemed really…upset.” Jane winces. “Before she even tried to open the door. And I don’t know why she’d be searching for my dad instead of my mom—her sister, you know. Has everything been okay here?”
No.
I want to pull at the collar of my crewneck. The shirt feels a thousand sizes too small. Suffocating me. Heat blankets my build in a homemade furnace. But I’m upright and rigid.
Farrow’s arm is the only comforting thing attached to my body right now.
I’ve tried not to keep anything from Jane. I’m not going to start today. So I tell her and Thatcher everything I know—which isn’t much.
“It’s probably just about Luna and the tabloids. I bet my mom wants your dad to help with headlines and lawyers.” Uncle Connor has always been good at handling media fallouts.
Jane hugs me. “We’ll keep an eye out if we see anything else.”
I hug her back, and when we part, Farrow’s hand falls into mine. We go into the kitchen, and he stops me from hiking upstairs like nothing happened.
“It’s fine,” I tell him, his hand encasing my jaw. It calms me. His touch, his eyes, his love. “My parents are strong.” I have total belief in them.
He nods, seeing this. “Whatever happens, I’m here.”
I cup his neck and kiss him.
What I hope: that there isn’t anything else that Jane will see or that we’ll see, that whatever is happening will just blow over. Like yesterday’s news.
10
FARROW KEENE
With the invitations mailed out two weeks ago, we don’t need the chalkboard guest list anymore. But Maximoff erases the names off his black bedroom wall, just to write a new list:
Philosophy quote
Forest (woods)
Hufflepuff
Family birthdays
X-Men
Batman?
Swimming (water)
I’m leaning on his dresser, and my smile is really fucking killing me. Maximoff’s 8 p.m. zigzagging thoughts and ideas are amusing as fuck.
He pauses to evaluate, his gaze flitting to me. I’m guessing he wants my opinion but doesn’t want to award me the satisfaction of asking for it.
Okay.
I sidle next to him. Stuffing my hands in my slacks, I angle my head and whisper close to his ear, “What’s with the question mark after Batman?”
His eyes dance over my cheeks and mouth. He wants me to kiss him.
My lip quirks, not giving in that easily.
Maximoff makes a point of looking at me directly. “You were your high school’s valedictorian, and you don’t even know what a question mark means?”
I let out a short laugh. “Always a precious smartass.” I straighten up; at six-three I’m only an inch taller, a fact I’d normally use to irritate him—but I’m too interested in wherever the hell he’s headed. “I just don’t understand the question mark in this context.”
“I’d rather not murder my dad,” he explains and gestures to the chalk word. “Because if I suddenly have a DC-related tattoo, there’ll be a fucking homicide. Hence, the indecision.”
See, thirty minutes ago Maximoff suddenly went from talking about the TV show The Flash to blow jobs to Plato’s Republic, and somehow we landed on tattoos.
Specifically, he told me, “I’m going to get a tattoo.”
I almost swallowed my gum. I didn’t predict that to ever come out of his mouth. He’s been content with having no ink. No piercings.
Not even out of sibling camaraderie.
Maximoff’s confidence of knowing what he wants and doesn’t want on his body has always been extremely attractive.
After the shock wore off, I spit out my gum, and I asked him what he wanted tattooed. Partly, I wonder if he’s just entertaining the idea.
That’s when he started doing the predictable Wolf Scout thing. And he wrote out this list.
“Okay, so no Batman tattoo.” I look him over, feeling like I’m missing something here. He doesn’t seem that uncertain.
In fact, he was really fucking confident when he said he was getting a tattoo in the first place.
“Have you thought about this before?” I wonder.
He rolls the chalk between his fingers. “Somewhat.”
“Somewhat?” I repeat, not believing him. “You’ve definitely processed this already.”
He doesn’t deny.
My mouth parts. “You know what you want, don’t you?”
Maximoff waits too long before shaking his head with force. Red creeps up his neck, and I laugh. Yeah, this shit has to be good. Or else he wouldn’t be drawing it out.
“You didn’t list your tattoo idea yet, have you?” My face hurts. “What is it?”
He glares at the ceiling like I’m hitting a nerve.
I keep going. “Is it a teabag?” I try not to laugh, just in case it’s actually a teabag.
He grimaces. “I don’t know what I want yet.” He’s not that convincing, but he rotates towards my chest. His tough eyes melt over the inked wings on my neck. “Maybe I need some inspiration, asshole.”
I soak in his strong-willed demeanor. Like no matter what anyone says or does, he’ll never be pushed down. Shit, he’s drop-dead-fucking-beautiful and seriously hot, but it’s just way too fun to tease the fuck out of him.
My brows lift. “He’s trying to get me naked.”
“For tattoo inspiration.”
I smile. He’s not fooling anyone. Still, I�
�m about to take off my shirt, but Maximoff is aggressive. He’s already gripping the hem of my Third Eye Blind tee. He pulls the fabric over my head, and our breaths shallow as he tosses the fabric aside.
Arousal snaps red-hot electricity in my veins. I run my silver-ringed fingers through my hair. Bright orange dye fading from the white strands.
“Don’t move,” Maximoff orders.
“Okay, Bossy.” I stare mostly at his eyes while he traces my ink with his hands. His fingers track burning lines on the symmetrical blood-red sparrows tattooed on my collarbones. His hands journey over the masts of the pirate ships the birds fly through.
And my muscles contract as he descends to the half-skull on my sternum. My cock twitches with a pulsating ache, and his Adam’s apple bobs in raw desire.
Before his hands travel lower, I grab his wrist. “Are you trying to turn me on, Maximoff, or do you want to tell me something?”
What do you want tattooed on your body, wolf scout?
His cheekbones sharpen, staring off. Lost in thought, but I’m patient and I wait for his focus to return to me.
His eyes meet mine. “Don’t laugh, man.”
My features turn completely serious. I let go of his wrist, my fingers gliding over his palm before our arms drop to our sides. “I promise, I won’t fuck with you.” This really means something to him—and a realization suddenly slams against my head. “The tattoo is about me.”
Maximoff nods a couple times.
I nod back, my lungs expanding in a deeper breath.
“Yeah.” He cracks his knuckles. “There’s only one tattoo I want, one I’d even consider, and it has to do with you.”
Emotion wells up in my chest. Even if I hadn’t already promised, I wouldn’t be able to make a joke. I’m choked up for a second, my eyes carrying the powerful sentiment.
“I want your name tattooed on me. Just Farrow.” Before I can respond, he barrels ahead and says, “I get that I could be dooming us, tattooing the name of my significant other on my body before we get married—”
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